The Dumbledore Dilemma
by Alexis Kent
Summary: When a series of cruel caricatures of Dumbledore mysteriously appear in Hogwarts, Harry is determined to see that they are stopped. But while working to defend the Headmaster, Harry ends up learning a valuable lesson about himself. One-shot


A sea of sleepy faces drifted into the courtyard of Hogwarts, carrying with it a low buzz of cheerful conversation. The students all wore smiles as they chattered on about their adventures in Hogsmeade; the food they had eaten, the people they had met, and most importantly, the candy they had bought. Half-buried beneath an armload of brightly-wrapped packages, a certain Ronald Weasley was half-walking, half-tripping behind his friends as Pigwidgeon zoomed about his head. The owl would occasionally dive down to snatch at the packages with its tiny beak, presumably to help.

"Geroff me, you stupid bird!" he yelped, hunching over. "You're -- Hermione, he's ripping them to shreds!"

"It's _your _owl, Ron," answered Hermione calmly, not breaking her stride. "Anyway, Harry, I don't have time to read your Potions essay tonight, but if you bring it to me after Transfigurations tomorrow…"

The trio marched on, with Harry and Hermione bickering over homework and Ron doing a very poor job of shooing Pigwidgeon away. As they wheeled about the corner of the hallway leading to the Gryffindor common room, they were greeted by a sight that made all of them fall silent.

The portrait of the Fat Lady was completely covered in dozens and dozens of papers, all of which screamed **Dumb Doddering DumbleDorK **in a crude scrawl. Beneath this, each paper bore a poorly-drawn but very recognizable picture of the Headmaster, drooling and staring vacantly at the corner of the page. Occasionally he would adjust his spectacles (which remained crooked, regardless) or tap curiously on the paper.

Harry, who had been staring at the scene with half a treacle tart in his mouth, finally swallowed and angrily brushed the crumbs off his face. "What's all this?" he demanded to nobody in particular, balling his fists. His insides felt ticklish, and his throat was tightening from anger.

"Just someone's idea of a joke," answered Hermione, who was already attempting to remove the pictures. Ron hovered uselessly behind her, offering advice as she struggled: "Grab it from the other end -- no no, you'll rip it that way -- really, Hermione, if you'd just hold these packages I could do it for you--"

"_Stop _it, Ron!" she snapped, tossing her wild hair over a shoulder. "If you had any sense at all, you'd see that someone has used a sticking charm on these -- not permanent, I don't think."

"You can undo it then, can't you?" asked Harry, peering over her shoulder. Six Dumbledores stared up at him, then grinned toothlessly.

"I think so -- I haven't really practiced the spell before, but--"

"Just try. In the meantime, I need to go find Dumbledore."

By the time Harry reached the gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office, he was breathless and feeling very cross indeed. As he ran through the corridors, he had discovered that the Fat Lady was only one of the portraits to be covered -- in every hallway, on every floor, the caricatures peered after him. Worse still, the students he'd passed by seemed to find it all rather amusing, snickering and mouthing "Dumbledork" to themselves.

"Toothflossing Stringmints!" he shouted at the statue. Nothing happened. "Coconut ice! Cockroach Clusters! Acid Pops!"

On and on he went, naming off every candy he could remember seeing on the shelves at Honeyduke's or stashed beneath Ron's bed. On and on he went, until he felt sick from the mere thought of so many sweets. But the statue remained motionless, even when he kicked it.

"Mister Potter, what are you doing?"

Harry winced at the sound of Professor McGonagall's voice, and turned sheepishly to face her. Though he was glad that it was her, and not Snape, who had found him, there would always be something humiliating about being caught kicking statues and hopping about on one foot -- no matter how nice the professor.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore, Professor," he mumbled, staring at his toes.

"The Headmaster is busy -- and what on earth could you need him for at this hour?"

"The pictures -- he should know about them!"

McGonagall smiled slightly. "I am sure he already is aware of them, Mister Potter. If that is all you wished to say, I would suggest you return to the dormitories."

Harry frowned, irritated by her smile. "But I think I know who's behind it!"

"Even as that may be, it is presumptuous to assume that you know more than the Headmaster--"

"--it's Draco!" burst out Harry, digging his heels into the ground. "His whole family hates Dumbledore!"

"Your grudge against Draco Malfoy is most amusing, Potter," came a voice that Harry loathed. Snape appeared at his elbow, smirking through his sheets of greasy black hair. "However, it is no cause to be tossing about baseless accusations for the mere purpose of increasing your reputation with the Headmaster."

"You'll defend him no matter what, won't you?" growled Harry, clenching his fists. "Just because you and his dad were all chummy with Voldemort! The Dark Lord's own little fan club, aren't you? You're just mad because if it weren't for me, you could still be having your own little tea party with him!"

McGonagall opened her mouth to reprimand Harry, but was cut off by Snape. "Arrogance, Potter. Always thinking you know everything, always looking for little mysteries or problems to solve and make yourself look like a hero… how much like your father."

"I'm not trying to make myself look like anything! But saying I'm like my dad is the very best compliment a greasy git like you could give me."

Snape's lips curled in a sneering reply, but no words came out. Harry laughed, seeing the indignant flare of Snape's over-large nostrils, before he realized that he, too, could make no sound.

"That is quite enough from the both of you," said McGonagall in clipped tones, tapping her wand flat across her hand. "Mister Potter, please return to your dormitory. Professor Snape, I believe Mister Filch was complaining earlier about his cat being harassed by one of your House; Marcus Flint, I believe. Perhaps you should have a word with him."

The man and the boy parted with seething glares. That night, Harry hardly slept at all.

The next day was terribly busy; between classes and homework and Quidditch practice, Harry hardly had a chance to talk to Ron and Hermione until late afternoon.

"--and then he starts spouting off a load of rubbish about my father and trying to be a hero and oh, saying it's _rivalry _with Draco." Harry _harrumphed _and snatched his wand, zapping a wayward fly and wishing it was Snape's nose instead.

Ron glanced sidelong at him. "Well, mate, maybe you are being just a little bit melodramatic. After all, it's only a picture."

"Melodramatic?" sputtered Harry, causing more than a few raised eyebrows from those sitting nearby in the library. Lowering his voice, he muttered, "I don't know about you, but I don't like to see the greatest wizard of all time mocked -- especially by scum like Malfoy."

Hermione, who had been engrossed in proofreading Harry's Potions essay (it was now covered in red ink), looked up long enough to say, "Harry, you don't even know he did it."

"It's pretty obvious to _me." _Standing, Harry shot a glare at both of his friends and snatched his essay from Hermione. "But either way, I know what it's liked to be laughed at, and I'm not just going to sit around and let Dumbledore be made a fool of."

That night, Harry ate alone at the Gryffindor table. He found he couldn't enjoy the meal at all, even though it was his favorite. A small niggling guilt had wormed its way into his belly; reflecting on the past day, he realized he'd been a terror to be around. However, this realization only made him more irritable; when Padma Patil asked him to pass the butter, he'd snapped that she didn't need any help adding to her middle.

As the dessert was served, and the benches near Harry were conspicuously empty, the Great Hall fell suddenly quiet. Looking up, he saw Dumbledore himself standing before the student body. The old man was calm and smiling, and Harry realized with a pang that nobody had informed him of the caricatures circulating the castle.

"By all means, continue eating," said the Headmaster, waving a hand benevolently. Gradually the children began eating again, and the clank of forks against plates resumed, though all eyes remained fixed on Dumbledore. A few students snickered, only to be quickly hushed by their friends.

"What I have to say will only take a moment," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "It has been brought to my attention that, as of last night, a series of pictures has been released bearing a likeness of myself and the words… what were they? Dumb Drooling Dumbledork, I believe. I must say, I am most disappointed."

Harry tightened his grip on his fork, and attempted to catch Dumbledore's eye, wishing to convey his sympathy. But the headmaster did not look his way, and continued.

"If you take a good look at me, you will see that my nose is a good deal longer than it is in the picture. And I've been made to look a great deal too young; some more wrinkles would fix that. Also, my eyes aren't nearly so large, and my left ear, as you see, is a bit higher than the other. I would very much like these things to be fixed. Thank you."

Silence followed this announcement, broken by the occasional fit of laughter from the Slytherin table. Everyone appeared rather stunned; Harry most of all. He felt completely repulsed, like he had just seen Snape's drawers. As the hall gradually emptied, he fought against the flow of students in an attempt to follow Dumbledore. All that could be seen of the man was the top of his star-spangled cap sticking above the crowd at the other end of the room.

"Dumbledore -- sir!" yelled Harry, breaking into a run. The old man turned, almost before the words had left his mouth.

"Ah, young Mister Potter," smiled Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling through his half-moon spectacles. "How can I help you?"

"I need to talk to you, sir. About the -- about the pictures."

"I had suspected as much. Of course, Harry. Follow me."

Not knowing whether or not to feel insulted, Harry had no choice but to trot along behind Dumbledore as he was led to the headmaster's office.

"Galloping Gumdrops," said Dumbledore to the gargoyle, which slid away at once. Smiling at Harry, he explained, "One of Fred and George Weasley's new inventions. They offered the first batch to me when trying to escape detention."

"Er… did you eat any?"

"I felt I'd rather live a little longer, Harry. Fawkes ate them gladly, and so far I see no adverse side-effects -- though I haven't yet been able to get him to stop neighing."

The office looked much the same as it always had, with one exception: a very large picture of Dumb Doddering Dumbledork was tacked over the desk.

"Sir," said Harry, feeling rather queasy, "Why weren't you -- why aren't you bothered?"

Dumbledore appeared pleasantly surprised. "By what, Harry?"

"The pictures!"

"Now, why would I be bothered by those?"

Harry blinked. "Because they're mocking you! Half the school's having a jolly good laugh at your expense."

"Laughter is a valuable thing in these times, Harry. I would not deprive them of their amusements."

"So you don't care? They make you look like a fool!" Harry crossed his arms, remembering with fury the _POTTER STINKS _badges that had been circulating the school just weeks ago. "I sure wouldn't put up with that."

Dumbledore smiled and placed a wrinkled hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. "There are many things that could bother me in this world; I simply don't have the time to worry about all of them. Fretting over what people think of me is not my highest priority."

After mulling this over for several moments, Harry said, "Well, maybe it's good that you're not in a tizzy about it -- but don't you at least want to know who did it?"

"I do. It's not hard to find these things out, with the proper knowledge."

"Malfoy!"

"Pansy Parkinson," answered Dumbledore, thumbing through an illuminated manuscript. "Tea?"

"Not Draco?" asked Harry in a small voice, feeling himself shrink back against his chair. "But -- he hates you!"

"Which is exactly why Miss Parkinson did it, Harry, don't you see? This was all an excellent way of gaining his interest, and possibly his affection. That's all the poor girl wants, I suspect. For that, I hope this little scheme is a success."

"So it's all a theory of yours that she did it?"

"A theory which was easy enough to prove with a little use of the Taboo spell and some deductive reasoning."

Not bothering to ask what the Taboo spell was, Harry launched into his next argument. "You could have at least told her to stop."

"I could have told her, yes. Would it have helped? I doubt it. Think of all those Muggle films -- yes, I've seen plenty. The villain chases the hero and yells, 'Come back, come back!' Does the hero stop, and surrender himself? No, he continues to do exactly as he had been doing. People will almost always do what they wish, Harry."

"You could've expelled her."

"Have you been listening to me at all, dear boy? The point I wish to make is that I am not the least bit perturbed by her antics. I know very well that I do not drool, and I am fairly hopeful that I am not dumb, so those who say anything to the contrary do not bother me. I am secure with or without them."

This time, Harry had nothing to say in retort. He drank tea with too much sugar, listened to Dumbledore chat with the portraits on the wall, then finally excused himself.

As he made his way to the portrait of the Fat Lady (this time ignoring the drooling pictures on the walls), he was accosted by Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his trademark smirk.

"Oh look, I'm Harry Potter!" squealed Draco, flailing his arms and flapping his hands. "Everyone please, give me attention! I'm disfigured from this horrible scar so please, please, cry for me! Don't you know I'm a hero? Don't be fooled by me always falling off my broom and crying in the night!"

"Excuse me, Draco," said Harry with a polite nod, stepping past Malfoy. "I have an essay I need to work on. Goodnight!"

As he passed through the common room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and smiled: he was certainly not disfigured.


End file.
